Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far, The voice divine of human loyalty.

Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence.

There are some cases in which the sense of injury breeds not the will to inflict injuries and climb over them as a ladder, but a hatred of all injury.

Every woman is supposed to have the same set of motives, or else to be a monster.

Each thought is a nail that is driven In structures that cannot decay; And the mansion at last will be given To us as we build it each day.

A common fallacy: to imagine a measure will be easy because we have private motives for desiring it.

Life is very difficult. It seems right to me sometimes that we should follow our strongest feelings; but then such feelings continually come across the ties that all our former life has made for us,--the ties that have made others dependent on us,--and would cut them in two.